sábado, 4 de mayo de 2013



Cántame bella Circe

Ahora que Penélope ha muerto;

Cántame las rutas secretas de tu amparo

La incerteza de saberme guerrero entre tus muslos.

Canta en mi oído la canción con que solías hechizarme

Y en la cual

Era ciego el verdor de muchos cielos

La caminata serrada de mi propio laberinto.


Hechicera de la muerte,

De los bosques,

Bella nínfula del río

La clave cifrada de tus pechos

Tu pétalo marchito

Sobre el vaso saliente de mi cuerpo bifurcado.

Despierta del sueño pesado de los viajes

Penélope ha marchado también hacia la noche

Y estoy solo como un carricero en mitad del árbol,

Triste como un gusano en el rondel del fruto.

lunes, 29 de abril de 2013




Mashiaj is my Shepherd

There's nothing I need

The fruit will overflow, the leaves, the weathercocks.

The spheres that transit the ethers

The poem that grows quietly

In the permissive and forbidden tree of the night

Mashiaj is my Shepherd

There's nothing I need

I shall harvest from all things around the world

The songs, the ravines, the shores

I will rest my back

On the stones of the desert

I will contemplate the obstreperous flight of the rivers

Over the mantle chiaro-oscuro of the valleys

In times when life becomes scarce

And Satan will rise like a hymn from the card-deck

Mashiaj shall provide the freshness

I will walk naked through the cosmos

Like one more star of Infinity 

Like a comet on the luminous mantle of death

And fame and defeat will come

Like two sisters, daughters of Calliope

And I will not fear them

Nor will I run away from them

Because my breast

 Streaming down like water is theirs

And theirs is my palate

That savors the fall

Mashiaj is my Shepherd

There is nothing I need

The three days of darkness

Will make me reflect on the shadows

The minuscule ants from the desert

Will not gnaw one iota  from the air

The destruction of the cities

Will not darken the daily blooming

Of the rains and the stars

And the light will come with its veils and dances

Maybe my blindness will be nourished by these songs

And my sword, will be nourished by their hair

Breaking the chasm toward the Promised Land.



 Winston Morales Chavarro

English translation: Luis Rafael Gálvez